“Your promises are but empty words,” Tariq shot back. “Said all too late.”
“My promises are not empty words.” The caliph stopped a body’s length away from him. “Though a promise means little without a measure of trust.”
Tariq’s jaw set. “The sheikh of this camp once told me trust is not a thing given; it is a thing earned. You have not yet earned mine.”
The caliph’s mouth curved into a reticent smile. “I think I’d like to meet this sheikh.”
A spell of awkward silence passed before Tariq responded, his words equally reticent. “Though I’m loath to admit it, I suspect he’d like you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He likes a good love story.” Tariq sighed resignedly.
“I’m not yet certain if this is a good love story.”
At this quiet pronouncement, Tariq caught sight of a vulnerability buried deep beneath the arrogance. More of the man behind the monster.
Tariq paused to consider the boy-king he’d so long despised. So long wanted to see die a thousand slow deaths at his willing and eager hands.
For the second time, Tariq saw the hint of something . . . more.
Not something he liked. Perhaps not something he could ever like.
But perhaps something he no longer hated.
“For your sake, it had better be a good love story,” he whispered.
At that, the Caliph of Khorasan bowed to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad, a hand to his brow.
After a moment, with the slightest twinge behind his heart—
Tariq returned the gesture.
AWRY
WHEN SHAHRZAD AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, IT was with a spinning head and a leaden shoulder. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, and every muscle in her body ached.
But she was warm. Warmer than she could ever remember being.
For the first time in her life, she woke wrapped in someone else’s arms.
Khalid was asleep beneath her.
She was on her stomach, strewn across him, their limbs an unwieldy tangle.
For a moment, she froze, thinking she might still be lost in a dream, concocted by one of Irsa’s foul-tasting tonics.
How is Khalid asleep?
She stared at him, confusion warring with the traces of slumber. Then she noticed a sliver of leather mingling with a length of metal about his throat.
He was wearing the talisman Musa Zaragoza had given her.
Shahrzad had rarely seen Khalid look anything other than pristine. The sight of him appearing in a state beyond his control was . . . intriguing, to say the least.
He looked like a beautiful disaster.
His dark hair was in complete disarray. There were smudges of dirt beneath one eye. They’d gathered in the creases formed by the scar beside it. His qamis did not fit him, for it was obvious it did not belong to him. It was too tight across his chest and too long in the arms.
Shahrzad stared at Khalid’s sleeping form in watchful silence. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her could almost lull her back into sleep, if she would but let it.
Instead she set her chin on her stacked palms and continued her careful study.
Khalid at rest was a fascinating prospect to behold. Awake, every shadow, every hollow appeared pronounced by the icy apathy he displayed for all things—the proud and petulant mask he wore to conceal the world of sentiments beneath. At rest, everything was softened. Molded as if from the finest clay. His lips were slightly parted. Begging to be touched. His eyebrows—usually set low and severe on his forehead—were smooth and without the looming threat of his judgment. His lashes were long and thick, curving darkly over the skin of his cheekbones.
So very beautiful.
“A painting would be better.”
Her breath caught.
Khalid’s lips had barely moved while he spoke. His eyes had remained closed.
She cleared her throat. “I do not need a painting. Nor do I want one.” Though she strove to sound indifferent, the husky rasp of her voice betrayed her.
Perhaps she could attribute it to the hour. Or to the recent ordeal.
Or to any number of—
“Liar.”
The blood rising in her cheeks, she turned away from him . . . and gasped sharply.
A searing pain bloomed from her shoulder and across her back. Shahrzad bit her lower lip hard.
Immediately, Khalid’s eyes flew open. He caught her chin in one hand, his gaze skimming across her face. Then he reached for a tumbler beside the bed pallet and passed it to her.
“What is it?” she asked, clearing her throat.
“Something your sister left to ease any discomfort.”
Shahrzad swallowed the liquid, its bitter taste coating her throat. She made a face. Though Irsa had obviously tried to mask the tonic’s unpleasant tang with honey and fresh mint, it still possessed a rather dreadful flavor.
While she drank, something stirred from the shadowy corners of the opposite side of the tent. Tariq soon appeared, his hair mussed and his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Khalid replied. “Nothing beyond morning mulishness.”
Shahrzad frowned. “No one asked you.”